


(and love will not break your heart)

by pentaghastly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, cheesy boyfriends in love, it's adorable, trev literally thinks dorian is the sun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is in the aftermath of Redcliffe, when he goes to talk to the mage standing near the apothecary, and it is perhaps a minute into their conversation, maybe more, maybe less, when he feels it, deep and angry in the pit of his stomach. They are talking about something foolish, unimportant, he cannot even remember the words, and it comes in all at once, a sudden, fell swoop. He is falling, falling, falling -</p><p>The other man smiles, laughs, and he is <em>flying</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(and love will not break your heart)

>   
> _“He is, most of all, the love that moves the sun and other stars.”_  
>  ― Dante Alighieri

...

It is a slow climb, but the view from the top is far worth it.

...

First: fear.

Irrational, sudden, it strikes him at the most inopportune of moments, because there is a hole in the sky above their heads and another now, smaller and in front of their faces, a hole with demons pouring out by the dozen, but he is not afraid of _those_. Demons he can deal with. Demons he can see, demons he can touch touch, can kill. They are easy, physical, real; they are a territory he knows far better than he had ever dreamed he might, back in Ostwick tower when to even utter such things under your breath would be grounds to have you turned from human to soulless husk.

This...he does not know this.

Dorian smiles, cracks a joke - no one should be able to make him laugh during a discussion on a potentially impending Tevinter invasion and _time magic_ , of all the blighted things that could possibly go wrong, and yet they exchange sarcastic quips as if it is second nature. He’s pomp and pride but he’s grace and charisma, too, and Trevelyan thinks that it may be a far more lethal combination that one would originally suspect.

He does not know _this_. He has had friendships, of course, but they were all of convenience, built on nothing more than mutual imprisonment and an ever-growing disdain for their captors. More allies than friends, he thinks. Partners perhaps, in a strange sense of the word, but he always knew better than too get too close, too involved or committed. And there were quick romps in dimly-lit rooms where the only purpose kissing fulfilled was to ensure that neither party made any noise - always quiet, always in the shadows, _keep your heart close to your chest, don’t let them catch a glimpse of light_. They love to try and steal away any glimmers they saw, the Templars; like magpies, irrevocably drawn to things that shine.

He looks down at his hand, the one that glows green in the Chantry’s dark, and smiles. It is no wonder the the Order is so desperate to capture him now - he is the brightest thing in all of Thedas.

But Dorian...he does not have time to dwell on it, before or during. It is in the aftermath of Redcliffe, when he goes to talk to the mage standing near the apothecary, and it is perhaps a minute into their conversation, maybe more, maybe less, when he feels it, deep and angry in the pit of his stomach. They are talking about something foolish, unimportant, he cannot even remember the words, and it comes in all at once, a sudden, fell swoop. He is falling, falling, falling - 

The other man smiles, laughs, and he is _flying_.

And _this_ is it, the same fear from their first meeting in the Chantry. He is a Tevinter Altus and yet that seems to be the least dangerous thing about the man, and Trevelyan feels queasy, feels sick, so he utters out a hasty excuse and leaves, does not look back behind him, cannot allow himself to. He runs the words through his head - “ _and She came to me in a vision and laid Her hand on my heart. her touch was like fire that did not burn. and by Her touch, I was made pure again._ ” - although he doesn’t believe in the Maker, never has, but the simple familiarity of the chant serves it’s purpose in distracting his mind, in keeping him on his feet, one placed steadily in front of the other.

He removes a leather glove, holds the now-bare hand in front of his face so close it is nearly brushing his nose, and all of a sudden it’s shine does not seem quite so bright in comparison to _his_.

…

“I am not very good with...with this.”

Skyhold’s library is near empty, save for the two of them - it is either the midst of the night or the earliest hours of the morning, he cannot tell, cannot remember, though he does not think it matters. He does not sleep anymore, does not remember the last time his eyes remained shut for more than two hours at a time, and when he comes to Dorian each night as the rest of the castle sleeps he suspects the mage must experience something quite the same.

Either that is the case, or the other man has taken to waiting up for his arrival, for the mere slivers of time when it is just the two of them, no prying ears or loose lips or little birds to spy. Trevelyan does not know if such a thing could be possible, and he does not dwell on it. He will not allow himself to hope; he _cannot_. Hope festers in the mind like poison, rots the senses and robs it's victims blind. He cannot remember a time when it has brought him anything but pain.

His hands flutter uselessly at his side, and he wants to explain, make it clear, but he does not know how to form the thoughts that scatter about his brain like stars into pictures. Weaving words is not as simple as the connect-the-dots game of the Astrariums; there is no treasure to be found at the end of his soliloquy.

“You don’t say! I would have never guessed; you are especially eloquent at the moment.” The quirk of Dorian’s eyebrow is almost comical in it's exaggeration, but he has a way of making all of his dramatics seem as natural as breathing. It is impressive, and often times astounding, how an action that would seem foolish on anyone else could suit him so seamlessly. “Now...what is it you are referring to, exactly?”

“This,” he motions to the air between the two of them as if that will make what he is trying to say any more clear - he has not been gifted with his words, either. “Friendship. Whatever it is that the two of us have; I am not good at it. We did not have it, back in the Circle. We did not…we didn’t _get_ anyone. You had yourself, and you had the people who shared your same fate, who understood your anger. There was nothing else. You had to protect yourself - you did not allow yourself to have so much.” He hopes Dorian picks up on it, the words that will remain unspoken.

_I have allowed myself to have so much with you._

Too much. Hands brush as one passes by the other and he forgets how to breathe; or he is no longer able to, a crushing weight atop his chest. It is drowning or it is burning or it is both, and it is...it _is_.

First comes fear. Second: awe.

Because he is a mage with a glowing hand and yet Dorian has somehow become the most fascinating thing in his world - he is charming, or he is sly, or he is pretty words, or he is barbed wit, or he is all of them at once and more, so much more than Trevelyan could have hardly imagined, and he cannot keep up, finds himself lost in the man’s wake, unable to tell left from right, up from down. He is lost, he is lost, and he is not scared, not anymore. Or perhaps he is, but it does not matter, has not mattered for a long while; he does not need to know where he is going, so long as he has Dorian there to show him the way.

 _”At my side?_ ” he would ask, moments before the first spell was cast, and the other man would shift his weight, cast a hungry grin, twirl his staff about his head. Always putting on a show.

Always, at his side.

“Well, you are hardly alone in that.” His voice cuts through the silence like the blade of Bull’s sword; there is no pity there, only sadness, and how could he be so foolish, so careless to forget that he is not the only one who has suffered, the only one who has been trapped in a world they do not belong? “So we’ll just have to fumble along as best we can and pick things up as we go, yes? Trial and error, or so to speak.”

A large hand reaches forward, gentle and slow, covers his own, the one with the sickly glow. He thought it pretty before, with a strange sort of vanity, but now the sight of it makes him ill, makes him angry. What would they do, were he to simply cut it off? Could they stop him? It is an ugly thing, the gash that marrs his skin, his skin that was once delicate and paper-thin from years spent indoors, years where the combat was more rare than a glimpse of the sun. There are callouses forming on the back of his knuckles now; he is not so fragile anymore.

Trial and error. Oddly enough, he likes the way that sounds.

…

The awe never fades away, it simply...transforms.

One moment it is wonder, child-like and pure. He is a young boy and he is not in chains, but he is staring up at the sun and it is blinding and beautiful and bright and it _burns_ , but he does not look away. He cannot, cannot remember how, cannot remember anything but this, but the spots that have burned themselves into his vision. He blinks, once, twice, and they stay, but it is a pain that he does not mind, a subtle sweetness underneath that he will not run away from, not anymore.

The next it is passion, and it tears him apart, eats him alive from the inside out - he has known want but he has not known _want_ , animal and frenzied and unchained. A single touch can undo him, bring him to his knees; he is weak, he is weak, and he Dorian’s, each inch, each limb, each word that falls from his lips is a prayer, and his lover asks for nothing in return, runs his fingers through his hair and tells him he is precious, he is love, and it is fascinating to him that Dorian can possibly not see how little he has to offer, how little he deserves.

They kiss, and when they kiss it is not to keep the other quiet. It is _loud_ and it does not belong in the shadows; he does not belong in the shadows anymore.

And it is _love_ , always love, and the love does not burn, or scar, or feed. It is warm and soft, the cocoon of Dorian’s arms around his body as they lay curled up in one another, and the other man always complains that the smatterings of hair that cover Trevelyan’s chest tickle his face uncomfortably, but it only takes a moment for him to be sound asleep, snoring in such a discordantly inelegant to his near-flawless waking appearance, a way that would appall him, were he conscious enough to hear it.

Trevelyan does not mind, of course. How could he? Besides, it is not as though the sound keeps him awake - he has no troubles sleeping anymore.

First: fear; second: awe; third: everything.

And there are the times when it is white hot, too much, everywhere all over him and all at once, and he cannot find his breath - there was a girl at the Circle, a pretty young girl with pointed ears and deft hands and a sweet smile, and one day she was there and the next she was there but _not_ , empty and lifeless and wrong. _Fancied herself in love_ , one of his fellow apprentices had told him, although he cannot remember their name, their face, whether they were sad, whether they believed she had earned her fate. _Thought it was a right, something she deserved; foolish thing,_ they had said, _thinking love is something we are allowed to touch._

Foolish thing, thinking this is something he deserves.

Dorian says nothing, traces patterns on his back with a delicacy that is uniquely his; Trevelyan wonders what it is that he sees, if he is able to connect the dots and make them fit, to paint a picture out of the jagged scars and angry bruises that cover his flesh like tears through a canvas. His ministrations are slow, steady, asking nothing, wanting nothing, serving no purpose other than to let him know that he is there, he is _there_ , he is not leaving. They cannot leave, not now, when they have finally made their way to the best part, to the after.

And perhaps - perhaps it is _not_ something he deserves, not something that any of them do. They are young and they are alive and they are so intrinsically wrapped up in one another, and love is not something that is earned or something that is searched for but something that is found. Dorian - he has found _Dorian_ , found his crooked smile and his paper heart and the way he gives himself so wholly, so completely, the way he gives so much of himself away and asks for nothing but the same in return.

And love is not something that is deserved but something that is stumbled upon while blindly feeling your way through the dark, but Dorian’s hand is brushing against his skin and they are _alive_ , and they are not -

A gentle kiss pressed against his shoulder, and they are no longer lost.

**Author's Note:**

> this was super hard to write, i posted it earlier but wasn't 1000% happy so i fixed some tiny, almost unnoticible but very important (to me) details and now I like it much more
> 
> kudos/comments are love <3


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